


With Fingernails That Shine Like Justice

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Sequel, a girl with a mind like a diamond, kind of au i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  An optional sequel to <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2836547/chapters/6363545">A Girl With a Mind Like a Diamond</a></i> set in September, 2016; this will probably make less sense without that 2005-set story. I say optional because people who are satisfied with the original as a contained story are welcome to skip this. (I'm so awesome at self-promotion, you guys!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Fingernails That Shine Like Justice

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: Huge thanks to jomarchfwf, youguysimserious, katelinnea, and carogables for feedback and beta work.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to DC and Warner Bros. Not me.

 

**September, 2016**

 

Felicity and Oliver were only together two months when he started agitating for them to get their own place. Felicity knew he loved living with Thea, but felt a little awkward having his girlfriend sleep over. Even if she was, as he was fond of telling her, way too big a part of his life for such a little word as _girlfriend_.

Turned out, once Oliver decided to be with her, he was all in, and _way_ more vocal and affectionate than she would have ever expected. Not that she really knew what to expect, but if she’d had to guess based just on their pre-relationship behavior? Felicity would’ve pegged herself as the more touchy-feely partner. Sure, during what she once described to Lyla as The Summer of Unbearable Sexual Tension, Oliver had beamed at her and flirted with her and, yes, touched her, but she was still the initiator of a lot of their casual, no-mortal-danger-around, totally-not-platonic-even-if-they-were-still-pretending-it-was touching. So she’d assumed that their pattern would hold if they ever _resolved_ any of that sexual tension.

Boy, was she wrong. Which was not at all a complaint. Oliver simply liked to touch her, and now that he had given himself permission, he hardly ever walked past her without reaching out -- a quick skim of his hand across her bicep, or the barest tangle of their fingers together or, one of her personal favorites, a soft palm smoothing along her hair. She thought maybe he was making up for lost time. 

She was totally fine with it. She was pretty much fine with everything involving them as an actual _them_. After all the stress and heartbreak and pining, they’d made the transition into couplehood with surprising ease. Not a whole lot between them changed -- they just added an enthusiastic sex life to all the good (and sometimes bad) stuff they'd already established.

It was both the easiest and hardest relationship she’d ever been in.

Still, despite his repeated cajoling, Felicity waited until they made it a year to agree to cohabitation, and then it took four months for them to agree to a place. She was looking for things like open living space, a large oven, and warm hardwood floors, while Oliver was dead set on limited ingress/egress and defensible positions.

But now they were here, in _their_ place, surrounded by all of their half-unpacked things, and Felicity couldn’t be happier.

Oliver had insisted on professional movers, and Felicity had agreed with the caveat that they unpack themselves. As they made this place into their home, she wanted them to integrate their lives, intermingle their _stuff_ , and if that was a little sappy, well, Oliver was the one who gave her a keychain with a mini-sharpie attached to it to commemorate moving in together -- the sharpie was red.

So he may have grumbled some at first, but he was making the effort to unpack thoughtfully, to _move in_ thoughtfully, so they'd end up with a shared space that they both had a hand in decorating. Or at least organizing -- he'd already begged off decisions on things like paint samples and throw pillows.

Oliver was folding his impressive collection of cashmere sweaters and Felicity was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sifting through a box labeled “sports stuff” in Oliver's blocky handwriting when she found a stack of adorable pictures. She grinned at his lacrosse trophy and thumbed through the laminated pictures of his team through the years. Her favorite was one where a young, much blonder Oliver knelt in the front row, all the boys in sporting powder blue t-shirts and enthusiastic eleven-year-old smiles.

She must have made a noise, because Oliver was standing beside her suddenly, curious and amused. “What’d you find?” he asked, hands on his thighs as he leaned down to see.

Felicity reached for him, pulling him down to sit beside her, their backs against the footboard of their bed. She tilted the picture so he could see it more clearly and tapped her aqua-painted nail against his tiny image. “You were _so_ cute!”

Oliver huffed a laugh, but she could read the undercurrent of melancholy and studied the picture more closely. 

“Oh,” she breathed when she caught sight of a familiar boy standing in the second row, “that’s Tommy.” He was tall and thin, almost gawky, with an unruly mop of dark hair and -- even then -- a mischievous smirk.

“Yeah,” Oliver answered, and for once, his voice was free of the familiar guilt and sadness as he talked about Tommy. “We were pretty inseparable at that age.” He smiled fondly down at his best friend’s image. “And incorrigible.”

 _Least surprising thing ever_ , she thought. Laughing softly, she tucked her arm through his. “Lacrosse hijinks?” she guessed.

Gently, he took the picture from her, rubbing his thumb against the edge as he nodded. “Probably more than our fair share.”

Felicity leaned her head against his shoulder, listening quietly as he recounted silly stories of them mixing flavors of Kool-Aid into an undrinkable mess. It was silly stuff they got into, but listening to Oliver recount happier times, memories that he actually _cherished_ \-- it was rare and precious. She tilted her head a bit, taking in his profile.

“I wish you’d known him,” Oliver said wistfully. He glanced at her, nodding, “I know you _met_ him, I just... I wish you’d gotten to know each other,” he explained. “Tommy would’ve loved you.”

Felicity didn’t answer for a long while. She’d never told him about Vegas -- first, because she was overwhelmed by his unexpected appearance in her life and his _terrible_ lie, and she was sure she’d never see him again. Then, as they slowly became _friends_ (despite the really awful lies and cover stories), well, she thought it would seem weird that she hadn’t mentioned it earlier. And, plus, it wasn’t like Oliver would _remember_ one random night in Vegas. One random _girl_ from before the island.

Besides, what did it matter? The Oliver Queen she knew and loved wasn’t the careless, fun-loving boy she’d met anyway.

But she also didn’t lie to Oliver, and didn’t much care for secrets. So maybe she should tell him, even if it confirmed her long-held suspicions that one silly night in Vegas had made much more of an impression on her than it had on two semi-drunk billionaires. She turned her head to press a kiss to his cheek and said, “Wait here.”

His brow furrowed but he stayed still, and she figured at least _part_ of that was an unexpected break from unpacking. He’d been whining a little about all the work it took -- turned out he would much rather push furniture around at her direction than evaluate his accumulated _stuff_ and decide where and how it should be kept. 

Straightening his legs and then crossing his ankles, he watched curiously as she pulled her wooden box of memories from her bureau.

With a little bit of trepidation, she settled back against his side and opened the box. She shouldn't be nervous, but she definitely felt a little jittery anticipating his reaction.

“Actually,” Felicity said slowly, “I had a little adventure with Tommy once.”

Oliver looked puzzled, and perhaps the slightest bit... jealous? “You did?”

“A long time ago,” she explained. “Before I went to college.” She watched him closely for his reaction.

Oliver blinked, absorbing this new information. “You met Tommy in Vegas?” he realized.

“Yes.” She smiled at him and nodded. 

“And,” he said, his tone careful -- maybe even wary, “you had an adventure with him?”

“Well, with Tommy and his best friend,” she corrected, holding his gaze.

Oliver stopped breathing, staring at her with wide, shocked eyes.

She knew he would spiral, assuming the worst -- remembering shitty things he and Tommy had gotten up to and imagining they’d hurt her -- so she pulled the crumpled, eleven-year-old note out and handed it to him.

He accepted it with a hand that shook just a little, betraying his nerves, and then he stared, open-mouthed, at the words written in his own handwriting.

“You probably don’t remember,” Felicity explained, “but we--”

“You’re _Courtney_?” Oliver breathed, stunned.

Felicity stared at him. “You _remember_ me?”

But Oliver seemed -- overwhelmed, shaking his head just a little as he read and reread the note he’d left her. “I can’t...”

She looped her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder and giving him time to process. She watched his index finger trace the name she’d given him years earlier, surprised by his reaction. She’d always assumed he wouldn’t remember.

“That was you,” Oliver said, breaking the silence, his voice low and sure as he turned his attention back to her. “Your hair, and the babbling, and, God, you were _so_ smart.”

Felicity grinned and lifted her head. “I _was_ so smart?” she teased.

Oliver watched her, that warm, affectionate smile on his face. “You were amazing at, what, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” she corrected.

“You’re terrifyingly smart now,” he told her, studying her face, clearly trying to see Courtney.

Felicity ducked her chin. “I can’t believe you actually remember me.”

Oliver’s full, warm smile made an appearance. “I’ve met you twice, Felicity Smoak, and both times you left an impression.”

She flushed, shrugging. “Ollie was just stunned a girl actually took off instead of trying to get into his pants. Not that I didn’t want into your pants,” she added, “I mean, _obviously_ you know I think you’re sexy. Though,” she said, thinking back on that long ago night, “your hair was pretty awful then.”

Oliver huffed a laugh. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said, smirking back at him. “Though I really do prefer your hair like this,” she told him. “And the stubble. This jawline,” she said, tilting her head and trailing her fingertips along his jaw, “it’s a little _too much_ without the stubble.” He groaned and her smile widened. “Ollie didn’t really understand how to handle this face.”

He grimaced. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Oliver, I know who you are,” Felicity said seriously, because she knew how deeply he regretted his immaturity and carelessness and she needed him to understand that she was proud of the man he'd become. “I met a smart, funny, lonely _kid_ in Vegas, but I met the brave, caring man I love here in Starling.” He opened his mouth to protest, and she skimmed one fingernail lightly along his jaw. "I'm right about this."

And because they'd talked many times about his unending guilt, about his kind heart, and he'd promised her that he would try to accept the way she saw him even if he had a hard time believing it himself, he nodded. The moment lingered, settling around them, and Felicity thought maybe this was a bit more progress on that front. Maybe she should've told him about Courtney a long time ago.

Oliver still held the note, and he tapped it with his free hand. “We should frame this.”

Felicity laughed. “Memorialize our shared night of debauchery?”

A strong arm swooped around her back, tugging her closer. “I _know_ there wasn’t debauchery,” he murmured, leaning in to tug her earlobe with his teeth, and if she didn’t believe he remembered Courtney before, she sure believed him now. Her seventeen-year-old self had replayed the feel of his breath on her neck and his teeth on her ear more than a few times. “I would _remember_ debauchery.” 

“True,” she answered, her tone a little shaky. Because the feel of his breath on her neck a decade later stirred up the same strong emotions. “No debauchery. Just petty theft.”

She felt the curve of his smile against her neck. “What’s a little petty theft between upstanding, law-abiding friends?”

Snorting, Felicity reached over to pluck the note from his hand and place it back in her box. His grumbled protest turned to a satisfied chuckle when she shifted to straddle him, her arms around his neck, her knees tucked against his hips.

“Hey.” Oliver gave her one of those panty-dropping half smiles. It shouldn't still work on her as well as it did.

She leaned closer, her lips a breath away from his. “Hey,” she answered, then kissed him.

His hands landed low on her hips, urging her closer as he enthusiastically responded. After a long moment, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “Felicity...”

She forced herself to focus, because apparently he wanted to _talk_. Ugh. “What?” she asked, a little more sharply than she’d meant to, but his fingers were still tracing little patterns on the skin of her lower back, and she was only human.

When he didn’t answer immediately, she studied his face, concerned. He looked... uncertain, maybe. “Oliver?”

“Why’d you leave?” he asked, curious and maybe a little fearful. “In Vegas.”

She ran her hands through his scruff, urging his face up so he would meet her gaze. “Tommy figured out I was in high school.”

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “He did?”

“And my name. I had my textbooks in my bag,” she added. “That note you left, that’s how I knew he never told you. I wondered why.”

Oliver’s gaze lost focus for a moment, and she recognized that he was combing through memories. “He just told me you had to go. And to _let_ you go,” Oliver answered slowly. He gave a half shrug. “I didn’t want to.”

It was Felicity’s turn to be baffled. “ _Why_? I was just one girl -- one tragically unhip, nerdy girl -- among hundreds.”

Oliver watched her, but she could tell he was thinking about his answer, thinking through how to say it. She wasn’t sure if she should be nervous, because it really shouldn’t matter what Ollie thought of her -- she knew exactly how _Oliver_ felt, and that was really all she needed. He shifted a little. “I found you... captivating.”

Felicity’s fingers tightened in his shirt, but she didn’t really know if she believed him. “Are you sure you’re not assigning some mystical meaning now, just because you know it was me and I’m important to you these days?” she suggested kindly. Because she honestly wouldn’t be offended. It would be sweet, and totally understandable.

“You’re the most important person in my life,” Oliver corrected, his hands drifting down her back to settle against her hips. “And just because I was too stupid as a half-drunk 20-year-old screwup to realize I’d just met the love of my life doesn’t meant you didn’t make an impression.”

“Oliver--”

“I kept a couple chips from that casino,” he confessed.

Felicity stared at him in awe. “The Doo-Wop?”

Oliver huffed a laugh. “Wow, I’d forgotten the name of that place. That’s awful.” Felicity nodded her agreement. His thumbs moved in soothing little arcs against her hipbones. “No, the Safari. Courtney’s casino. _Your_ casino.”

“Really?” she breathed. 

“Really,” he answered, his lips quirking in a small, sincere smile. “I didn’t really _think_ about things then, so I probably didn’t even know why I kept them. But I’m pretty sure we’ll eventually unearth them from one of these boxes.” He tilted his head towards the towering pile in the corner of the bedroom.

She couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him. The feelings she had for this man -- they were impossible and too large and overwhelming sometimes. 

As Felicity tugged rather insistently on his t-shirt, Oliver leaned back, breathing a little erratically. “Felicity?”

 _More_ talking? She let her forehead drop to his still-clothed shoulder with a sigh.

He laughed at her, the big jerk. 

“Yes, Oliver?” she asked, grinning as she straightened and gave him her best head-tilt-y exasperated look.

He basically beamed at her for a moment, his hands skimming under her shirt to smooth against the skin of her back. “One question.”

“Yes, Oliver?” she repeated, wriggling a little in his lap until his grip on her tightened to hold her still.

But his smile faded into something else, something curious and a little awed. She froze, uncertain what would possibly cause him to look at her like that.

“You said earlier,” he started, then stopped, his gaze slipping away from hers for a moment. “In Vegas, you said you met a lonely kid,” he continued slowly, bringing his gaze back to hers. “How did you know I was lonely?”

Felicity leaned in and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips, her hands cupping his cheeks, holding him still. Then she smiled at him. “You know I’ve always seen right through you,” she told him.

He watched her quietly, and she was just starting to think she should apologize for making a joke when he was _obviously_ feeling serious about all of this, what with all of this heart-to-heart stuff, and -- crap, maybe she’d pissed him off--

Oliver started to grin. “That’s true,” he said, his fingers feathering across her skin until she shivered. “So tell me, Felicity -- what am I thinking right now?” he asked, his tone so low and suggestive that she actually shivered in response.

“Oh, my God, _finally_ ,” she said, smirking at him as she yanked her shirt over her head. “Let’s do this thing.”

He leaned his head back against the bedframe, laughing. “Let’s _do this thing_?” he repeated, incredulous. "I thought we were on a strict unpacking schedule."

“Sex now,” she answered, scraping her nails lightly against his abs. “Unpacking later. Now lose the pants, mister.”

END


End file.
